


I Blame You...

by Punk_in_Docs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Lost - Freeform, Rain, Scotland, Storm - Freeform, map troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another sappy Sherlock one shot..... Suitable for all Holmesietes and Sherlockians...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Blame You...

“You said left!”

“Sherlock, I said right…”

“You forget who you are arguing with! I remember distinctly a ‘left’ passed your lips…”

“You know, I don’t think your initials stand for Sherlock Holmes, I think they stand for Selective Hearing…”

“Oh very witty...”

He growled at me, snatching the map from my grasp and studying it for himself.

We had – all three of us – traveled up to Scotland for a case, yes. Scotland. Kilts, Braveheart, bagpipes and The Lock Ness monster. Sherlock’s client was a remarkably eccentric old man, with a mad mother to boot, who had a more than interesting case of which satisfied Sherlock immensely, as it turns out, the gardener who was found murdered amongst his hydrangeas one morning, was having an affair with the cook, who in turn was having an affair with the mother, and who had set about murdering the gardener by poisoning him with unknown daily doses of lead. Which, to Sherlock, was like Christmas, birthday and a new microscope all rolled into one. The case had ended up with John and me chasing a mad, weeping and hysteric eighty year old woman around the gardens at night while she clutched a meat cleaver and started chanting in old Celtic.

After she had been apprehended – by the groundskeeper, who managed to slug her in the head with a shotgun rifle, before proceeding to take the knife from her clawing, and stark raving mad grasp – and awaited the local police, who were two hours away (so much for local) John had decided that the case should really be called, ‘The Case of the Culloden Affairs’ he also added, with a snickering side note, that he would definitely include seeing the look on Sherlock’s face as he was forced into eating haggis and black pudding at dinner one evening..

Nevertheless, the case was solved and put to bed now. And we were driving back from Culloden, where the case was at Culloden Castle, in the middle of absolute nowhere, may I say, and the only road to get there consisted of winding highland mountain roads, which, when clouded by darkness, fog, and thundering rain and lightning, were not so easy to navigate, as there was a multitude of roads all leading back to different directions, each one plunging us deep into more wilderness. To put the metaphorical cherry on top, none of our phones could get service, and we had long since lost John, who, was far ahead in another land rover. And the map we had bought from the car rental seemed to have morphed into gibberish so that neither myself, nor Sherlock, could translate it. Sat in the dingy barely lit interior of our Land rover, the rain was pelting so hard against our windscreen, I honest to god thought it would shatter under the strain. And our wipers were moving so fast to try and stem the heavy downpour, I thought they were liable to break.

Our headlights threw pools of light into the road ahead of us, illuminating the long narrow twisted road ahead of us.

I shivered slightly, and cranked the heater up in front of me, blasting the passenger seat with hot air, I moaned audibly in pleasure, rubbing my frost bitten hands together.

Sherlock’s brow crinkled as he tried to study the scrunched up map opposite me in the driver’s seat.

“Well…?”

I asked cautiously, my shivering hands gradually getting warmer.

He swallowed, and quickly folded up the map, stowing it away in the side pocket of his car door. Before placing his hands on the steering wheel and snapping into action, but not before his lips let out words I never wanted to hear him say…

“We’re lost…”

I groaned, very audibly, and very loudly, throwing my head back to the headrest.

“How can we be lost, Sherlock, you have an eidetic memory for Christ’s sake, surely you remember which road led us back to Fluellen...”

I pleaded, searching hopefully into his blue eyes for the sparking glint of hope that I so often saw there.

Nope. Even in the dimly lit, noisy front seat, with the rain hammering down and wind howling around our car, there was no flash. No glint. No small speck of hope.

“The road looks different in the thundering rain and the dark, Libby…”

He said accusingly.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, as rivers of electric white crawled searchingly across the black clouded sky that was spewing heavy raindrops.

I sighed, my head thudding back to the headrest.

“I don’t know, are there any other maps in the boot? Where’s the torch..”

I asked, unbuckling my seat belt, and stretching my legs.

I watched as a sheepish expression crossed his face.

My eyes darkened with impending annoyance.

“Sherlock, where’s our torch..”

“Well, it’s safe I know that much…”

“Sherlock Holmes…”

“Probably somewhere in the vicinity of John’s backseat…”

I sighed, before taking a deep breath, unlocking my car door and clambering out into the wall of rain, and thrashing wind that battered me where I stood, I slammed the car door before the rain soaked the seat, but not before I saw Sherlock madly scramble out of his seatbelt and throw his door open too.

I tottered forwards, travelling from the front door to the boot.

As I got there, I saw Sherlock’s lithe frame tower over the boot that I was scrambling my hands over to find the handle.

“YOU IDIOT! YOU’LL CATCH YOUR DEATH IN THIS!!”

He shouted loudly to me over the, apparent hurricane, we were engulfed in.

“THERE COULD BE A MAP IN THE BOOT!! I’M JUST GONNA LOOK!”

I yelled back, rain dripping in rivulets down my face, my hair was already soaked, the wet tendrils of which stuck to my chin and cheeks, my jacket keeping me barely warm, whilst my legs were sodden to the bone already, and I had only been stood out here for about a minute.  
My chilled fingers, - which by now were feeling more akin to five icicles attached to my palm – found the handle under the lip of the boot and tugged it open, the light flickered on, showing us a spare tire, some rope, and a crowbar. My stomach dropped to my toes. How brilliantly ironic.

I gave a huff of irritation that was snatched away by the roaring wind.

Sherlock helped me slam the boot shut, I turned to see him in the half darkness, his hair was drooping over his forehead, black curls shiny and wet as they stuck there, and, much like me, and water was running in thick rivers down his face, dropping off his chin and onto his body. Even the trusty Belstaff looked sodden with rain.

I trudged around the side of the car and threw my cold, sopping wet body back into the passenger seat, the cold wet fabric of my clothes sliding down the leather seats. I could already feel a puddle of water collect where I sat on the seat, water dripping down my back.  
Sherlock thudded his back into his own seat, his hands shivering like mad, water still dripping down over his wonderful cheekbones and lips.

Dripping from his chin and onto his sodden jacket.

I peered over at him, my teeth just starting to chatter, my hands cold and starting to shake too, just as much as his.

But as I made eye contact with him, a string of laughter and wildly amused giggles broke both our lips, and we laughed like giddy school kids.

I regained my laughing posture enough to sit back up in my seat, and gasp out

“It isn’t… sniff…. Funny! Sherlock-k, I can’tt feel my feet, or fingerss.”

I mumbled, teeth snapping together as I shivered, he nodded, letting his smile stretch his lips into an amused smile. Before he twisted his head to look in the back seat,

“T-Theres a blanket in the back sseat…”

He said, his own teeth chattering now.

I twisted my head to see a tartan wool rug thrown over the leather seats, I turned my body around in the small space and steadied my knee on the middle of our seats near the handbrake.

“W-what are y-you doingg?”

Sherlock asked, smile still ever present and growing as he watched me awkwardly bent in three, my right leg in the back seat, ass jutting up in the air as I clambered over.

“Tryingg to getw-wwarm… I-mm not going-g outside ag-gain!”

I explained, wiggling my other leg over in a manner that must’ve looked very unattractive from his angle.

“By dooing-g gym excercises?”

He asked, chuckling, as I stretched my body any which way it would fit to clamber into the spacious back seat. By now, the windows were fogging up, but we could still hear the rain relentlessly pounding against the car outside.

With shivering and shaking hands I unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around my wet body, keeping a minute amount of body heat where it belonged.

I watched Sherlock stare straight ahead at the road, silently as his lips carried on chattering with the effort to contain his shaking teeth.

“Sherlock-k, comeand get warm-m with mee…”

I said wobbly, my voice shaking just as much as I was.

He turned in the seat, hands clenching together.

When he just stared for a minute, a string of expletives flew from my quivering lips.

“bloody hell, Sherlock-k, body heat, I n-need you to warm up, come-on…”

I demanded, smiling, holding out a corner of the large blanket for him.

He huffed, a breath passing stiffly through is trembling lips as he twisted his wiry frame around and scrambled into the back every bit as ungracefully as I had.

I smiled as he maneuvered his gangly limbs onto the middle seat close to me, shuffling me forwards he slipped behind me, engulfing us both in a soggy Belstaff coat, and a warm musty woolen blanket, his arms tucked to his chest, fingers digging into the soggy fabric of my jacket, hooking me close to him, so I was nearly on top of him, I could feel his juddering hot breath at the back of my neck, warming my wet hair briefly with his quivering lips.

His hands shook as he held me to him. My own doing the same as I slid my freezing palms over his knuckles that were gripping my clothes.

“Fuck, youur hand-s are cold!!!”

He exclaimed, his breath tickling my ice cold neck with tantalizingly hot breath.

“All, I can t-think about is getting warm! That-s all I can, think-k about…”

I felt him draw in a quaking breath, that I had come to recognize as an attempt at a laugh.

I was about to ask why he was laughing when he answered.

“Y-you know-w usually, if we were led this close together, I’d suggest another very int-timate activity to help us get warm-m…But it-s even too c-cold for that!”

He chuckled, so did I

“I n-never thought-t I’d hear the day, you’dd say y-you were t-to cold for sex-x!”

I laughed. He tittered softly in agreement,

We just lay there silently for a while, his hot breath warming the back of my neck, as I brought his cold hands up to my lips and smothered them in kisses, breathing on them to warm them up for him. He nuzzled his cool lips into the back of my neck even further as a result. I know my lips were marginally warmer than a block of ice, but his hands had stopped shaking, if but a little bit.

We were led contentedly, slowly warming up, when the engine suddenly spluttered and cut out, leaving us in relative darkness in the backseat of the car.

I shifted my head to look at Sherlock, who pressed a fleeting kiss across my warmed knuckles, before sliding out from behind me, and climbing back into the front seat – ever as ungracefully as before.

He turned the key in the ignition, which let out a whining splutter of complaint, in a repetitive put put put noise.

He rested a minute, before trying again, to be rewarded with the exact same grumble of unhealthy sounding protest.

My stomach turned to ice, and clunked viscously to my feet.

Someone really wanted to piss on our parade of good luck today.

He turned to face me in the backseat as I sat ramrod straight, tugging the blanket around my shoulders.

“Any chance you reckon there’s a wandering mechanic nearby?”

Sherlock asked sheepishly, wincing as he dreaded my reaction.

I sighed, looking out of the fogged up windows and into the driving rain, hearing the thunder grumble and moan distantly across the sky.

“How far is the nearest village?”

I asked aloud, seeing Sherlock’s face fall darkly for a moment.

“You can’t be serious…”

He said gravely.

“Sherlock, I’m not sleeping in this car with no heater! They’ll find our cold and blue dead bodies in the back seat in the morning!!”

I huffed, leaning forwards in the seat, gripping it and sliding so that my damp clothed bum was teetering on the very edge of the back seat.

“The nearest village we passed was three miles back, it had a hotel and a pub, and a garage and-“

“I rescind my earlier statement, you CANNOT be serious…"

Sherlock growled in a low warning voice, which assured me a scolding, intellectually overloaded lecture was to follow shortly.

“Sherlock, we don’t have many other options. We can’t get hold of John, our car is, well, dead! And we will freeze to death of we stay in this car!”

He sighed, taking my words into consideration.

Before his gaze shifted to the abominable weather outside.

“Why Don’t I go and you stay here, I’ll get the mechanic to come back and we-..”

“Sherlock, its 10 ‘o’clock at night, they won’t be open, and no way are you leaving me here! I’m liable to get hacked to death by a Scottish axe murderer, If we go, we go together…”

“How did I never come to realize you are remarkably stubborn?”

He asked himself aloud, hand poised on the door.

“Coming?”

He asked to me, levering the door open so the spund of the rain grew wilder and louder.

“Try and stop me, Holmes!”

I smiled, tugging on the door handle, throwing the door open, and racing myself to hit the wall of rain and howling winds once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The small little village of Dunmore was sparse and isolated, the only solitary companion to the huge rearing landscape and the large loch that huddled it into the deep corner of the vast mountain, dwarfing the tiny town from view, nearly sheltering it from being found, this, along with the thick edge of woodland that encroached upon the town, made finding it a chore in itself.

Everyone knew the Scottish weather could be relentless and unyielding, especially to those who weren’t so used to it. The wind would bite at you like a giant hound was on your heels, and the wind was as cold and as bitter as the first chilling fingers of frost on a cold morning, it had the sheer unassuming power to knock the breath and warmth from your body almost instantly.

But this was normal for the town of Dunmore, people would merely batten down the hatches and pay it no mind, a serenity would wash over the town with every accompanying drop of rain. The locals would laugh in affectionate pity whenever a new stranger washed up at the local Inn, seeking shelter from the storm, finding their gushing over the unremitting elements a thing of hilarity, this was just another day in Dunmore for them.

Me and Sherlock ran as fast as our bitterly cold legs would carry us, over the small bridge that separated the local Inn from the rest of the town. The Loch thrashing and lapping wildly under the bridge due to the shattering wall of rain, we stumbled over the bridge and up the drive, puddles sloshing over our wet feet, making ice cold water leak into our shoes, but we were both so cold and wet that we barely noticed. The large sign that read; “The Bramble and Hook” swung around wildly above the entrance.

As me and Sherlock sheltered in the small, and wonderfully beautifully dry porch - I rattled my shaking fist on the door of the old Inn, banging it so furiously my whole body jarred as I pounded and pounded. Propriety be damned, I was seconds way from catching frostbite. Warm was mine and his only goal.

Within minutes, I heard the sweet sound of a lock twisting and gyrating heavily in a door from the other side. And the door was pulled open by a frail and brittle looking old lady. Who regarded the lovely looking young woman, with dripping hair, trembling lips, and eye makeup that was running down her cheeks, aswell as the handsome black curly haired man, who looked soaked right through, at her side, with a small pinched smile on her wrinkled old face.

“Come on in, dearies, before ye both catch yer death…”

She broiled in a thick Scottish accent.

Libby trembled a faint and mumbling of thanks that seeped through her quaking lips, before stepping into the blissfully warm climate of the Inn as the old woman bolted the door, keeping the pesky unforgiving weather at bay. She stayed carefully on the doormat not wanting to drip water on the old wooden floors, Sherlock beside her displaying the same polite decorum.

“I’m Maggie Trowell, me an’ me husband Wallace own the Inn, welcome to the Bramble an’ Hook. Come in, come in. Never ye mind about the floors, dearies, it survived a stampede of a Celtic warriors and a bloody massacre back in 1508, it can survive a wee puddl’ of water…”

She spoke kindly, flitting behind the reception desk to their immediate right, and producing two large fluffy towels that smelled like lavender and baby powder, and giving one each to her sopping wet guests.

They both moaned their appreciation and thanks, the handsome man toweling off his wet hair, and the young woman draping it over her soggy shoulders, overtop a positively drenched tartan wool blanket that was snugly around her shoulders.

“Its-s a pleasuree to meet you, Maggie, I-mm Libby and this is S-Sherlock.”

Libby spoke wobbly, voice cracking due to her chattering teeth.

This caused her to smile.

“Its lovely to meet ya both…”

Sherlock finished ruffling his wet hair with the towel, as Libby moved to do the same to her own wet hair.

“I don’t-t suppose you have a room w-where we could dry off and warm up for the night?”

Sherlock asked, hopefully.

Maggie smiled a wonderful, weathered old smile.

“Of course dears, ye’r not the first lost visitors we’ve had to rescue from our oold elements…”

She said, plucking a key from the desk, before walking across to a rickety wooden staircase lined with photos and various stuffed animal heads.

“Me husband wally shot this stag when he were a wee yong bearn, no more aged than yourself chook…”

(Bearn; means small child or baby for those who are unaware…Scottish can be confusing)

She said to Sherlock, pointing to the stags head on the wall that Sherlock had to duck under as he walked up behind her, her shriveled old limbs taking the stairs gracefully and quickly. Quicker than her young guests anyway, who were crippled and exhausted from the cold.

Libby and Sherlock were led up the old stairs that creaked and moaned under their combined weights, passing by a grand old living room, with a very large stone fireplace, where a multitude of old people lay snoring in wingback chairs around the fire.

“That’s my wally, there, in the red chair…”

Maggie said, gesturing with her bony hands.

Libby peered over the banister to see a stout old man with a grey moustache snoring in an armchair, a scratchy old gramophone blasting ancient soft melodies over the sleeping inhabitants of the room.

They eventually got up the stairs, Maggie giving her two visitors a list of the history of the Bramble and Hook’s history, interestingly, William Wallace used to frequent the small town back in 1600’s, and then a king and his wife stayed here in 1709, and a various multitude of other historical events that Maggie told us about, which our cold bodies were too tired to soak up.

She led us to a studded wooden door that looked very heavy to budge, but, she persisted and threw in open, showing a mediaeval looking room, complete with an old copper tin bath and a huge roaring fire, with a large four poster bed that was shrouded in tapestry like curtains and thick looking covers.

Maggie stood to one side to let us pass into the room, smiling as she admired it.

“This is oo’ur king and queen room, supposedly where a royal babe was conceived back in the day, right on that very mattress there…”

She pointed to the bed.

Sherlock blinked a few times, before thanking her profusely.

“Its ne’eer a worry chooks, there be some spare clothes for ye in the dresser and thut there wardrobe, why dun’t ye get dry and dinner u’ll be up on uh tray for ye laterr.”

With that, she shuffled out of the door, clicking it shut from the other side, we heard her shuffle down the landing and onto the creaky stairs, but before she could be considered out of earshot, we heard a loud cry echo through the hall.

“WALLY!”

There was a moment of snorting or snoring, before a voice answered her cries.

“AYE!”

“GET OOT TO THUT KITCHEN, WE HAVE VISUTURS!!!”

“AYE!”

(AYE, means yes..)

Once the shrill Scottish shouting had died down, me and Sherlock looked at each other, before tearing into bursts of laughter.  
Sherlock’s loud chuckling reverberated through the room like rough sex on a pile of gravel that was soaked in smoke and whisky.

“Shh, she might hear you...”

I laughed, stripping off my clothes, as many layers as I deemed safe with Sherlock in the room. Before huddling to the roaring fire, feeling my skin tingle with prickling warming sensations.

Sherlock did the same, fingers fumbling over his own clothes, as he stripped to the waist, socks included as he sat by me near the fire, with me sat hugging my knees to my chest, clad in only a vest and my small knickers, the rest of my soggy clothes thrown over a chair, I shucked off my sodden bra and threw that over my shoulder too, I could do without the wet clingy material sticking to my chest making me even colder.

We both sat close to one another on the rug by the fire, rubbing our extremities to make the warmth and feeling return.

“I can’t feel my hands...”

Sherlock moaned, holding his open palms to the fire. Smiling as he rubbed them together.

“I can’t feel my feet!!”

I smiled, scrunching my toes together, feeling the sharp stabbing sensation return, warming my blood and skin up once more.

I moaned, hyperaware that Sherlock had turned to watch me with renewed interest. Blue eyes shining brightly at me.

I opened my eyes and turned to face him.

He sat just watching me, eyes roaming from my lips to my eyes.

“I know the day has been rather miserable and all, but, I just want you know, I’ve – hand on heart, - honestly never been happier…”

He spoke softly, unsticking a wet tendril of hair from my cheek,

I smiled.

“It’s weird…”

I shook my head, referring to the god awful day we had just endured, yet…

“Me too.”

I smiled, his warm palm now slid down to cup my cheek caressing it softly.

“I can’t wait to grow old with you Libby, I really can’t.”

“Will you still love me when I’m old and fat? And no longer youthful…”

I smiled, his eyes pierced me lovingly

“Are you kidding? I love you know like I’ll love you then, even when your hair is all white, and your face is all weathered with wrinkles and crow’s feet, and even then you’ll always be young and beautiful to me.”

I sat there drinking in his words that were possibly the most romantic thing he had ever said to me.

As he said this his fingers stroked over my cheeks and the corners of my eyes, demonstrating where he thought my wrinkles would age my face.

He then leaned in and kissed me on the lips, really meaning it.

His lips were still slightly cold, and I moaned in surprise into his embrace.

“You’re still cold...”

I uttered, my hand feeling his clammy cold and wet skin.

I got to my feet, wrapping a blanket off the chair around me, aware that I wasn’t wearing a bra, and in the cold room that would otherwise be very obvious…

I crossed to the bathroom, turning on the taps in the bath, and placing the plug in, letting a long flow of fairly warm water spout into the copper bathtub, warm steam filling the room, I dribbled in some scented oil from tiny bottles near the sink, letting the sweet smell of lavender fill the room, before crossing back into the bedroom to Sherlock, who sat with one elbow dangling off of one bent knee, cocking an eyebrow at me.

“Come on, you’ll never warm up otherwise…”

He sighed and heaved himself to his feet. Grabbing my arms and yanking me close to his front, pressing the hard planes of his body to mine, getting dangerously close.

“Only if you join me, you’re still cold too…”

He reasoned, feeling the damp cool skin of my back.

I rolled my eyes, seeing the bath was nearly full, bubbles dusted across the warm and steaming surface.

“Come on…”

I said, tugging him with me. Within minutes were both ensconced under the hot water, Me wrapped around Sherlock’s back like the bath scene from pretty woman, his wet head on my shoulder, my cheek pressed into his dark curls. That now smelled less like his usual scent of mint, and more like lavenders now. My legs were crossed above his abdomen, his hands tucking themselves into the creases of my knees, smoothing down my calves every once in a while. I gently lathered his chest and shoulders with a sponge and shower gel, slowly squeezing more water over him, and getting him even warmer. His response was to exhale slowly and let his head drop to my chest.

“I think I’m beginning to like this...”

He explained, stroking my knees.

I smiled against the back of his neck, placing an errant kiss there that made him shiver pleasurably.

“I can feel my feet again…”

He smiled, chuckling.

I could see him wiggling his toes under the water at the other end, causing ripples to erupt across the surface of the steaming surface.

“You have surprisingly big feet...”

I said, cocking my head to look at them, they really were quite big, I’d never noticed before, his feet were dwarfed by his mile long legs.

His hands glided softly down to my thighs.

“You know what they say about big feet…”

He said suggestively.

“Big shoes?”

I asked innocently, smiling like a vixen. Feeling his chuckle rumble through to my body.

From where we lay entwined in the bath, out the small dark square of the window, the storm still slashed at the window, knifing shards of rain across the glass trying to claw its way in.

“I hope the weather lets up by morning…”

I said softly, squeezing more warm water from the sponge onto Sherlock’s chest.

He hummed in response.

“I’m sure it’ll pass during the night…”

He said confidently

It was then we both heard a quiet little scuffling knock on our large oak door.

I – reluctantly – peeled my soaked body from behind Sherlock and climbed out of the bath. Running naked to the bathroom door to throw on a dressing gown, just knowing Sherlock would be watching my naked form with glee, I pulled on the large towel dressing gown and padded silently to the door. Pulling it open, I found no one there, but a tray had been left on the landing floor, it was covered in a tea towel with a note pinned atop, I bent down and plucked the note from the tray, reading the neat little scrawls of handwriting;

 

Libby and Sherlock,

Here’s some tea to warm you both up, along with a tot of our finest Scottish whiskey, if that doesn’t put a fire in your belly, I don’t know what will…

-Maggie and Wally.

I smiled, before placing the note down on the tray and picking it up, taking it into our room and shutting the door behind me, I placed it down on the large dresser, peering under the towel to see two bowls of soup, a large heap of bread, several amazing looking sandwiches and two glasses half full of whiskey. Only when my stomach grumbled looking at the spread of food, did I realize I was ravenous too.

Sherlock slunk out of the bathroom, tying the bathrobe around himself as he walked.

“Who was it? Maggie or Wally?”

I smiled, and we both heard the familiar “WALLY?” followed by the “AYE!” from downstairs.

We erupted into fits of giggles like two schoolgirls.

“Maggie, she sent us up a tray of food and whiskey…”

I motioned to the half tumblers of amber liquid in front of me.

Sherlock raised an impressed brow,

“I’m beginning to like Scotland..”

He winked, his hand resting on my bum as he stood next to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After we had dried off and had wolfed down the soup, bread and sandwiches, along with a small amount of whiskey, we finally felt warm again, that, and the fact we slid out of our dressing gowns and into some of the clothes that the room provided.

“Come on, I want to see it…”

Sherlock chided as I pulled on a nightgown that was very probably Victorian, it felt scratchy and starchy, and smelt like mothballs.  
I tugged it on, and viewed myself in the mirror before walking out to Sherlock, who burst into bouts of loud rumbling laughter sat on the bed in corduroy trousers and a too large shirt that looked like they both belonged on a stout eighty year old man.

I tugged at the neck of this monstrosity, it was tight and suffocating, and it ended at my ankles, with large puffed out sleeves that ended at my wrists.

I threw a pillow at him as he continued to laugh.

“It’s not funny…”

He continued to laugh

“OH matron...”

He moaned, imitating the carry on films.

“You look gorgeous…”

I rolled my eyes, tugging myself out of the hideous frilled dress, throwing it in a pile on the floor, and grabbing my marginally dry pants, tugging them on, along with a pair of wool socks and a large polo necked jumper, that, again, belonged to an eighty year old man most probably.

“Careful there, you were flashing your ankles, that’s dangerously scandalous…”

He purred, engulfing me into the bedcovers as I slid in next to him.

We settled comfortably into silence, hearing the storm rage on outside, battering the old Inn that held up remarkably, despite its shabby and rickety old feel, that made one strong gust of wind seem enough to send it crumbling brick by brick.

I shuffled closer to Sherlock in the large bed.

“I can’t be the only one whose thinking about the royal baby that was supposedly conceived on this mattress can I?”

Sherlock rumbled aloud, leaning up and sitting over me.

I blinked a couple of times.

“Thank you, I had managed to wipe that thought from my brain…”

I winced, feeling Sherlock slide a hand up my stomach, was it me or was it getting hotter in here,

“Hang on... I’m too warm here...”

I said shrugging off the socks that were making my feet too warm, and shucking myself out of my jumper, pulling the covers tighter over me, as I was now only in my pants.

Sherlock led back down beside me, hands gliding over my skin, now thoroughly warmed.

“I love you Sherlock.”

I breathed happily as I snuggled down into the pillows, closing my eyes, letting the exhausting day take its toll on me.  
I felt Sherlock still beside me, before a soft pair of lips brushed across my own, I gasped in surprise, feeling his body as he shifted so my body was under his with no escape route, he hooked his hands under the backs of my knees, shifting me to welcome him – gladly – between my legs.

Getting what he was hinting after, with clumsy fingers I unbuttoned his shirt and threw it away, I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of the very loose trousers he wore, sliding them down as his lips left a hot trail down my neck. Biting and sucking in a way that made me whimper and made my eyes flutter shut in my head.

As my thumbs brushed nothing but the smooth bare skin of his lower back, I realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.

I retracted my head and gave him a surprised look in the darkness

“No underwear?”

He smirked,

“Doesn’t seem like I’ll be needing it, now does it?”

My hands slid his trousers down and off his inexcusably long legs quickly.

And soon. All too soon. We were naked. Innocently, beautifully naked. Together. His hands slid up and down me, leaving hot paths where his palms had been, but, I had a feeling this wasn’t about lust. It didn’t feel full of the usual ready to burst sexual energy that we were both guilty of bringing to the table during sex, it felt loving, so genuinely loving. Not about urges or primitive animal acts, but a careful and perfect act of love. It was dizzying how much I loved him. And it was unbelievable how much he loved me too. So, he pushed into me and rolled his hips slowly, pulling whimpers and cries from my lips in a way only he could, lips moving down my chest and up to my neck and alternating between the two, we moved in tandem, back and forth over and over and over again, until we both came with a soft cry with each other’s names on our lips, blissfully kissing and running hands over each other smooth skin, curling into the covers, and holding each other in a way no other person in the world could satisfy.

Gradually we fell asleep. Matching one another’s deep breaths and slow rising and falling chests. Small smiles gracing both our mouths, because although our day was moderately below very awful, in the end, I had him and he had me, and it was just us,

Just us against the rest of the world.  
And that’s all that counted.

<3


End file.
